


Day of the Dead

by Ffwydriad



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Holidays, Post-Canon, Whitestone (Critical Role), Worldbuilding, who says fanfic can't be just as bullshit as literary works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-30 06:24:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20810024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ffwydriad/pseuds/Ffwydriad
Summary: Celebration, and mourning. Vex, and Whitestone.





	Day of the Dead

Whitestone, historically, never celebrated many holidays. They were observed on an individual basis, but the only days where you could see it in the town were Winter's Crest and Highsummer. It was a city of light, and they celebrated with light, celebrated the sun on the day it was strongest, and the day it was furthest away. 

After the Briarwoods, Whitestone celebrated two new holidays. The first, an anniversary of their freedom, of their uprising, of their revolution, that tied together with Winter's Crest for a whole two weeks of celebration and merriment.

The other was the Night of Ascension. 

Even privately, the Night of Ascension wasn't a day that had been celebrated before the Briarwoods came, before the Briarwoods fell. The Raven Queen was respected, in Tal'Dorei, but she was not honored. Only her most fervent followers celebrated her rise. Who would want to celebrate death herself? 

Well, Tal'dorei might not have understood that, but Whitestone did. And on the night, towards the end of fall, they took to the night darkened streets to celebrate. 

It isn't dark, though, in the heart of Whitestone. Everything is lit up, paper lanterns strung together and candles sitting in windowsills. From the walls of the castle, the city looks more like a field of stars than it usually does, at night, and the sound of music and laughter rises through the chilly air.

Children run through the streets and beg at stalls for treats and toys, and adults share stories and filter through the crowds, joining in on the revelry and living life to the fullest. And each and every person out on the streets - save for a handful of gawking tourists not quite brave enough yet to join - is wearing a mask. 

The masks are, mostly, porcelain, designed in the image of the goddess herself, a base pale white, not that you can tell, looking at most of them, because each is full of color, crossed with detailed designs, brightly dyed etchings. 

Well, every mask but one. 

The Baroness lets her hair fall loose out of its typical braid, and pulls a blank white mask of bone from its resting place. Beneath her perch, on the Castle walls, she can hear the sounds and smells of revelry, of her people, rising and falling, a steady rhythm.

The empty eyes of the mask stare back at her, taunting. She resists the urge to slam it down into the stone, to watch it shatter into pieces. It was hard enough to make, she reasons, and pretends it has nothing to do with the reflection that stairs back at her, hair loose around her shoulders.

"Don't mistake this as worship," she says, to the open air, to the empty sky. "This is blasphemy and you know it."

The air says nothing in return. It never does.

She puts on the mask, and descends to the streets.

Dressed all in black, in the low light, she knows that the mask appears suspended in the air as she walks the path to Whitestone. The streets grow closer, and she walks with purpose; the crowd opens up to accept her without a word. 

Slowly, behind her, the parade begins to form. The sound does not die down, nor the dancing, nor the revelry, but it shifts, slowly, songs becoming chants, joy becoming reverence, the energy in the air not dampening but gaining a mystical quality that grows stronger with each step.

She circles the city, passing houses that once were battlefields, passing streets where giants fell, letting the parade build up in number until all of Whitestone is at her heels, and when they are, she leads them out of the city, into the graveyard. 

They follow, bearing candles and lanterns, bearing offerings and gifts. They follow with chants and elegies, with respect and admiration. 

She vanishes into the darkness, and emerges standing on top of the crypt. It isn't elegant - she doesn't try to make it elegant. The shadows hide her from the crowd, and any other witness doesn't deserve to see her with any grace. 

When she stands, arms outstretched above them, the chanting grows. She lets it grow, louder and louder, as the people fill in. She waits. 

The ravens come. 

She hasn't trained them to. She doesn't need to. They come uncalled for, come unbidden, come without fail year after year. She holds back the urge to laugh, as they land upon her, as the cover her in a swarm. They call it the blessing of a goddess, but she knows better. She knows it isn't goddess, whose face she wears tonight. 

Standing on his temple, on his tomb, the Champion lets the Raven Mask fall to the ground, and takes the cover of night and birds and stealth hard-earned to vanish out into the forest.

She doesn't stay to watch them, but she pauses, on the edge of the forest, looking up at the night sky, at the stars. She thinks of other fates, and other tombs, thinks of ravens who always leave as surely as they'll return year after year. 

In the darkness, she rebraids her hair. In the darkness, she walks home. 

She tucks her children into their beds. She strips herself of the shadows. Safe, in the walls of her home, she finds herself eventually to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you agree to dress up as a goddess for your city's festival and actually dress up as your dead brother so that mostly oblivious townspeople can worship him....to cope???
> 
> it says a lot that my first actual vox machina fic is weird angsty metaphor strewn self-indulgent nonsense.
> 
> i'm @malaismere on tumblr if you want to experience even more of my bullshit


End file.
